“I heard this loud crack. It was like an explosion. The rain was shattering like sheets, and I didn’t dare go outside.”
Bianca tugged at Marcia’s pants, getting into the story. “Mar-Mar, that stupid princess house crashed all the way from the sky. Bam!”
Indeed the entire yard was littered with splinters of charred wood, soggy pink banners, and sparkly tiles. The bright metal ladder dangled by one leg, twisted from a direct hit. It was a miracle nothing else was damaged.
“I’m glad you didn’t go outside to check,” Marcia said to her father.
“I saw it hit,” Pappy said. “A big crack and everything lit up like a ghost house. Smelled like the dickens and zap, the lights went out and the whole shebang hit the ground with a giant thud. Jarred me out of my La-Z-Boy.”
“Now we need Brock to build a turtle treehouse.” Bianca bounced and skipped around Marcia like she was a maypole.
“I’m not sure Brock is coming back, sweetie. He’s going away to a big city.”
“Really?” Bianca hugged Marcia’s legs. “But he said he likes me.”
“He called you his little princess, didn’t he?” Pappy tickled Bianca’s cheek.
“I’m only a princess for Brock,” Bianca announced, standing straight and tall.
Marcia furrowed her brow and caught her father’s eye. “How many times did Brock visit while I was working?”
Pappy tugged the back of his collar. “Whenever he got a lunch break or a few hours. I usually took Bianca to the day games.”
“And we saw Brock hit with a big bat,” Bianca said. “He gave me a baseball with his name. I’ll show you.”
She dashed into the house through the sliding glass door.
“So, basically, after I told you I didn’t want any contact between Brock and Bianca, you deliberately set them up to meet behind my back?”
“Guilty. Need I remind you that you’re still my daughter?” Pappy harrumphed and looked proud of himself.
“You see what happened? Brock’s going to abandon her, and she’s going to be hurt. It’s exactly what I feared. How could you do this behind my back?” Marcia threw her hands to the sky and groaned. “How could you?”
She marched to the front porch and flung herself on the swing. Once, long ago, she and Brock had lain here, unable to keep their hands off each other. They’d giggled and tickled and whispered and dreamed.
And then they’d grown up.
Marcia rolled onto her side and imagined Brock next to her. She conjured the memories and recalled long forgotten dreams. The swing rocked back and forth, and back and forth.
Marcia waited, but it was too late. The sun had gone down.
Chapter Twenty
Days passed into a week, then two. Spring training was almost over, and Brock still hadn’t contacted Marcia. All she heard came through Conrad and Jeanine. Brock and his friends no longer came to the Hot Corner. In fact, receipts were down the last two weeks. The cheerleaders were gone and the scouts, tourists, and fans followed them to whatever new watering hole they preferred.
Marcia tapped a wineglass with a fork, listening to the clinking sound. Her eyes were watery and these days, she was never far from tears.
Jeanine wandered by and surveyed the few patrons gathered in front of a TV tuned to a boxing match.
Across from them, Conrad paraded around with his tablet, taking fantasy baseball trades.
“Look at them,” Marcia said. “You’d think their matchups were better than the real game.”
“They are.” Jeanine emptied a leftover pitcher into the sink. “They’re taking bets. I heard Conrad say he bet a yacht once.”
“On a fantasy game? How does it work?”
“Apparently, it’s all about stats,” Jeanine said. “They pick their rosters, and then as the real stats roll in from the live games, the points are recalculated and the team with the best stats wins.”
“What’s so fun about that?” Marcia rolled her eyes.
“Lots and lots of money. Conrad says he bets the long shots. The teams with the crappy stats.”
“Long shots are for losers.” Marcia had heard a thing or two about horse races. True, you could win big if the old nag miraculously came in first, but usually, they went down in flames.
“Not if they win,” Jeanine reminded her. “Longer odds means a bigger payoff.”
A scrap of a conversation she’d overheard jogged in Marcia’s mind. “Hey, wait. I heard Brock and another guy complain about their stats. Said there was a bug in the database. Something about shaving points off their batting average.”
“Really?” Jeanine turned her head to stare at Conrad and his gang. “No wonder he wanted me to place a bet. He said it was a sure thing. He said Timmy was pitching tonight and he had a freaking high ERA, which is bad. So I asked him why would his father want a bad pitcher to pitch? And he just smirked and showed me how he changed a few points up and down here and there.”
“Which makes the Rattlers a long shot.” Marcia crossed her arms. “And when they win, blammo, they hit the jackpot.”
“Right!”
“Isn’t it hurting Brock’s prospects if his stats are off?” Marcia speculated out loud. “I mean with the scouts?”
“Probably, but you don’t want him to sign with another team, do you?” Jeanine shrugged. “Conrad says he fixes everything after the game. He only blips it for the pre-game bookmaking.”
The two of them stared at the boxing match. It occurred to Marcia that the only reason people got excited about sports was to bet on the outcome. After the commercial, the show cut to a sports update. Brock’s picture flashed onto the screen.
The announcer said, “Rattlers third-baseman Brock Carter is to be sidelined for tonight’s big game against the reigning world champs. Allegations have surfaced that Carter may have abused his long time girlfriend according to a complaint she filed with the team owner.”
“What the heck?” Marcia’s heart dropped to the floor. Who’d make up a story like that? And Brock, he must be hating her right now.
The second announcer said, “The league takes domestic violence seriously, and Riggins has vowed a full investigation. In other news, ace pitcher Timmy Li has been a devastating disappointment for the Rattlers. It’s a surprise they’re starting him today.”
“For sure,” the first guy said. “His earned run average is atrocious, and the only explanation I have is that the Rattlers have decided to scrape their bench tonight and let everyone play.”
“It would seem that way,” the second announcer said. “Now, back to the boxing match.”
A loud cheer exploded from the nerds hanging around Conrad. They high-fived each other as if they’d just won the lottery.
Marcia had had enough. She swung around the bar and stomped to Conrad. “Are you doing something illegal here?”
“You should be happy my father’s taking your allegations seriously,” Conrad said.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You filed that complaint.”
“So? It’s true, isn’t it? Everyone knows you kept Bianca away from Brock.”
The air deflated from Marcia’s lungs. “Everyone? Does Brock know?”
“Give it up, Marcia. He’s looking for a lawyer to take Bianca away from you. He says you’re a pathological liar.”
“Out. Out of my bar.” Marcia jabbed a finger at him. “You, all of you, get out.”
“Sure, we’ll leave.” Conrad smirked. “Looks like we’re your last customers.”
“I don’t care if I have to close this place down. You’re not welcome here ever,” she screamed and shook her fists.
The few remaining customers glanced over their shoulders and filed out the door, leaving their bills unpaid.
“That went well,” Jeanine said. “What now?”
Marcia flipped the switch to turn off the ‘Open’ sign and grabbed her car keys. “Come with me. We’re going to the clubhouse and I need your creds to get in.”
“You’r
e not hoping to see Brock, are you? He’s got to be furious with you right now.”
# # #
“I don’t drink anymore.” Brock held off the bartender at the clubhouse. The news report had just flashed on the TV screen, and everyone crowded around him, giving their condolences.
“She’s a bitch. You should sue for defamation.”
“It’s probably a custody play. She knows you want your parental rights.”
“Women, they take everything you own, and then turn your kids against you.”
Ryan clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be okay. Riggins is a fair man. He’s not going to ground you without proof.”
Brock slammed his hand on the counter. “It’s all over the news. She fucking smeared my name. Riggins might be forced by the commissioner to throw me out of baseball.”
“Not to mention the scouts are gone,” Timmy said. “We’re both in the doghouse. That fucking Conrad’s manipulating the stats. I know it. He asked me to pay and I said ‘no way.’ Then he says all Chinese understand bribes and that I should give him back some of what his father gave me.”
Brock stared at the long-haired pitcher. That had got to be the longest monologue ever from a guy who usually grunted and growled.
“What the fuck? She’s got some nerve coming here,” one of the catchers hollered. “Look at her.”
Everyone turned toward the door.
Brock’s heart and lungs exploded, and his skin fried to a crisp. Every muscle in his body fired into action. He knocked over the barstool and marched toward Marcia.
How dare she invade his sanctuary?
“Brock, I came to give you your daughter.” Her words squeezed through gritted teeth, as she brought her hand around from her back.
Holding onto Marcia was Bianca.
“Brock? Are you mad at Mar-Mar?” the little girl lisped.
Brock’s heart froze and blood surged in his veins. Through all the shock and anger, he could only stare at Marcia, longing to grab ahold of her and kiss her senseless. Take her by the hand and fly away with her. Love her. But right now, she was furious and she’d reported him, ruined his career, ruined everything. Yet, she’d never looked more beautiful and more unapproachable, and he couldn’t quite grasp what she wanted.
She pushed Bianca toward him.
“Take her, Brock. Take her to the zoo or to Disneyland. Take her to Paris or the moon. I trust you to care for her. She’s yours.” Marcia’s lips trembled and every muscle in her body shook. Kneeling, she kissed her daughter, her eyes glistening, and hugged her. “This is your daddy. He’s going to take you to see turtles. Big, giant turtles, and he loves you. Very much. Promise you’ll be good?”
“Yes, Mar-Mar, I promise. I have a daddy and a Pappy?”
Marcia nodded as she smoothed Bianca’s hair. “You’re a very lucky girl. Now give me a kiss.”
Bianca kissed and hugged Marcia, then put her hands up for Brock. “Pick me up, Daddy. I wanna go see ninja turtles.”
He wasn’t quite sure how Bianca ended up in his arms, nor where Marcia had disappeared to, or what his teammates were cheering about. All he tasted was the salt on his lips, and the hollowness in his heart. He’d won Bianca, but lost the woman he loved more than life.
# # #
“So, you’re saying my son is manipulating the odds by faking the stats and messing with my roster?” The elder Riggins eyed Marcia as she and Jeanine sat in front of his desk.
“That’s absolutely right,” Marcia said. “The fantasy club he’s running is a cover for the Vegas bookies collecting the bets. He engineered taking Brock off the roster with fake allegations of abuse and messed up Timmy’s ERA because he refused to pay bribes.”
“Those are some heavy accusations.” Riggins leaned forward over his heavy oak desk. “Are you prepared to show proof?”
“Why don’t you reinstate Brock as a surprise and see what happens to your son’s bank account? He placed big bets,” Jeanine piped in.
Riggins’s nostrils flared. “And where would you get this information?”
“Let’s just say your boy talks in his sleep.”
Riggins snorted. “If you two are here to extort money from me, you can leave right now. My son’s too smart to throw his career away on two-bit tramps.”
“You don’t have to believe us,” Marcia said. “Do an audit of your stats database. Or even better, fix the stats before the game in time for the bookmakers to adjust the odds and see what happens.”
Riggins growled and waved his hand. “I’ll take what you said into consideration.”
“Great.” Marcia stood. “Your son filed those phony accusations and probably informed the media. How does it feel to lose your biggest investment? Brock Carter is now worthless as a free agent, and you’ll not get a good trade out of him.”
Riggins scowled. “Get out of here. Go.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Dusk cooled the porch as crickets chirped a steady cadence. The wind chimes Brock made for Marcia’s family mocked her with their cheery tinkling and wishful engraving: Home is where the Powers are.
Today was Brock’s day off, but Marcia had no clue where he’d be. The other day, he had brought Bianca back from the zoo and stayed to talk to Pappy, but he’d refused to meet her eye. It was as if all the life had been sucked out of him. Even though he’d been reinstated to the roster, false rumors ran rampant over social media and the fans booed him the one time he took to the field.
The only silver lining was Conrad’s spectacular failure after Riggins fixed the pre-game stats. The commissioner had ordered a full-fledged investigation, and Conrad owed so much money to the Vegas playmakers he was in serious danger from the mob, especially since his father cut his allowance and told him he had to pay his own debts.
But Marcia had lost also. Everything was still her fault. If she’d told Brock about Bianca at the beginning, none of this would have happened, and Brock’s reputation wouldn’t be under a cloud of allegations.
She lounged on the swing every evening after Bianca went to bed. It was her penance. Her solace. Her remembrance of happier times.
The roar of a motorcycle came and went, but she no longer looked up. There was no expectation. No hope.
Wheels crunched on the gravel and turned the corner. Another engine purred and cut, clicking with warmth.
She didn’t bother looking up.
A heavy footstep creaked on the porch board.
Marcia drew in a breath and startled. This time, she looked.
Brock approached, carrying a nail gun.
“I’m just going to place my tools here for tomorrow,” he said. “For my daughter’s tree house.”
He turned around and strode back to his truck.
Pain enveloped Marcia, but she could neither cry nor run nor walk away. She sat, paralyzed, as all the blood drained from her body. He couldn’t stand the sight of her—viewed her as a garden gnome or a porch fixture—an obstacle to step around while he visited Bianca and Pappy.
Brock returned with a circular saw and a sawhorse. He set them on the side of the porch and ambled back to the truck.
The next time he stepped onto the porch, he was carrying a toolbox and extension cords. He threw the cords in the corner and set the toolbox on the floor next to the swing.
The agony of having him so close, yet so far from her pulled Marcia’s heart from her body. The body belonged to her Brock, so awesomely handsome, but the soul no longer cared about her. The Brock inside hated her.
Would he go away now that he had lain his tools on the porch? Would he ask her to go to work the next day and the next, or to move out so he wouldn’t have this awkwardness every time he came to see his daughter?
He put his hands in his pocket and stared at her, his mouth a line of regret. “When were you going to tell me?”
It took a while before her mouth, her tongue, and her throat could form a reply. “So many times. That dinner I prepared when I first found out five years ag
o. On the houseboat when we went fishing. At your apartment when you’d been drinking. At the clubhouse after the thunderstorm.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Marcia clutched her hands in front of her and squeezed her stomach muscles to hold back the sobs. She would not break down in front of him, a man who no longer cared. She would not have his pity or his concern. She only had to answer him one last time. She had to tell the truth.
“Well?” He bent toward her, demanding and stern. “Why didn’t you?”
“I was scared.” The words rushed as a harsh whisper.
“Of me? You believed I would abuse my child?”
“No, I convinced myself later that I should be scared of that.” She stared at a knot in the floorboard. “I justified my decision and made myself the victim. In the beginning, I was hurt that you didn’t want a family with me—that you didn’t love me enough to change your mind. So I sent you away, and then I was hurt when you left so easily. So I rationalized that it was for the better. You were a child of an abuser and your risk was high. I told myself I was doing what any mother would do to protect her child.”
“And you made me into a monster.”
“Yes, but I was wrong. I’ve been going to therapy and learning how to communicate. I should have simply told you what I wanted and needed, but because of my insecurities, I was afraid you’d know my weaknesses and use them against me.”
“In other words, lack of trust.” He stood in front her, rocking on his heels. “I have the same issues.”
Silence stretched as Marcia took deep breaths. Even though her heart was shattered, she wouldn’t grovel. She’d explained and that was that. He’d hate her whether she begged or not. Life as she knew it was over.
He lowered himself onto the swing beside her. Marcia closed her eyes, trembling at his presence, feeling his nearness with every nerve in her body, with every beat of her heart, with every wish in her soul.
“I am an unforgiving bastard,” he said. “I’m no better than you.”
So, this was the final blow. He was trying to soften it. Marcia sucked in her breath and held it, her eyes closed, unable to look at the face of her doom, the man she would love beyond her last breath.
Playing Without Rules: A Baseball Romance Page 13